


Knowing

by DictionaryWrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Kissing, M/M, Naked Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 16:28:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11062782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DictionaryWrites/pseuds/DictionaryWrites
Summary: He walks into his bedroom, pretending he hasn’t noticed – they both know he has. Neither of them are stupid.





	Knowing

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Crobby Cuddling Art](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/295026) by http://gorlassar.tumblr.com. 



It’s the noise that gives Bobby pause.

He stops short in the doorway to his bedroom, a beer still clutched in his right hand, a book hanging loosely from his left hand: for once, he’s actually dressed in a set of his pyjamas ( _and they’re old, too, so old he remembers opening the Christmas parcel Ellen had wrapped with the red-and-white striped paper there’s still half a roll of in the back of his closet)_ , his robe over top, and he was going to sleep in his own bed rather than falling asleep downstairs, in the library.

The noise is quiet, but it doesn’t fit in with the natural rhythms and creaks of the house: it’s a quiet _tap_.

Bobby stands very, very still, not turning around, and lets his gaze flicker slowly to the mirror on the wall.

Behind him, silhouetted by the bathroom light that Bobby hadn’t turned off yet, is a short, rounded shadow that Bobby recognizes. He doesn’t relax. He doesn’t turn to face it, either.

He walks into his bedroom, pretending he hasn’t noticed – they both know he has. Neither of them are stupid.

Bobby shrugs off the robe and throws it over the office chair that settles at his old, heavily laden desk, and he settles slowly on the edge of the bed. The springs creak – he’s needed a new mattress for twenty years, now, but he just gets a new mattress topper now and then and tries not to think about it – and Bobby swings his legs up, lying back with his head laid upon the pillows.

In the moment between his turning off the light and his eyes closing shut, he sees the shadow once more, at the foot of his bed. The book is gently settled on the bedside table, his beer placed on top of it, and Bobby lies on his side, facing inward.

There’s a pause, and then the bed creaks again, a weight joining him on the bed.

Bobby smells a subtle, spiced cologne, and when the shadow presses against him in bed, Bobby says, “You’re still wearing yer suit.”

“I didn’t know we’d agreed to be _nude_ ,” Crowley says, his voice slick and charming and softly convincing. His breath is warm against Bobby’s neck, and despite himself, Bobby lets out a soft and blissful sigh. This is what he misses most of all. He misses the kisses, the meals together, the dates, the arguments, the sex, but these are the things he misses most about having someone here in the house with him: the simplest, little things.

Shoulders brushing past each other in the too-small doorways ( _like Isherwood, a voice says in the back of his head)_ , the ordinariness ( _it was Heaney that said that, not you_ ), being together but with spaces in the togetherness, and-

Who said that? Bobby feels himself scowl. He can’t remember. He hates it when he can’t remember.

“Crowley,” he says, reluctantly, “Who said—”

“It was Kahil Gibran,” Crowley murmurs against the hollow of Bobby’s collarbone, which isn’t so much of a hollow as it used to be. He doesn’t even sound _smug._ “ _For the pillars of the temple stand apart, and the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow_.” Bobby’s eyes close tight: Crowley whispering poetry against his neck isn’t exactly what he has in mind when Crowley joins him in bed, but…

Well.

He never has anything in mind, does he? He shouldn’t think about it. He shouldn’t _allow_ it.

But these are the parts he misses, and most of all, lying in bed with another person. Even if it’s Crowley. Even if he’s a sick, demonic sonuvabitch, even if he’s killed people, even if he’d destroy Bobby’s life at the drop of a hat – at the drop of a hat Crowley dropped himself…

On the nights Bobby sleeps in his own bed, Crowley sleeps with him. Or at least, Crowley lies with him, in the bed: Bobby isn’t sure how much he sleeps. Bobby shifts, slightly, feels the button of Crowley’s jacket against his belly, and Crowley lets out a distinctly dramatic sigh.

With a snap of his fingers, they’re skin to skin, Crowley’s chest against Bobby’s, his naked knee neatly slotted between the lower half of Bobby’s thighs, and Bobby turns his head, letting his lips brush the top of Crowley’s head. Bobby traces the tattoos he knows Crowley has on his shoulder, and then he shifts his left arm, letting Crowley lie on top of it. Bobby all but _clutches_ at the demon, lets his fingers splay over his skin: it’s paler than Bobby’s, Bobby is always inexplicably astonished to remember.

“Why ain’tchu got any hair, huh? You shave?”

“It’s called androgenic alopecia,” Crowley says, snidely, against Bobby’s chest.

“Not on your head, you _ass_ ,” Bobby says, dragging his nails down Crowley’s back – there’s hair there, sure, but even though Crowley’s hair is black as all Hell, you can’t even see it in the light. His chest only has the lightest bit of hair, too, even around his nipples, and it’s _weird_.

Crowley chuckles, pressing closer – his leg comes a little more firmly between Bobby’s, one of his arms curling around Bobby’s back, his fingers carding through the hair at the back of his head.

“Did anyone ever tell you, Robert, how silly you look without one of your little hats on?”

“You ever gonna answer my questions?”

“Nah,” Crowley purrs. “Where would the fun be in that?” Crowley looks up, his brown eyes round and soft-looking. Bobby meets his gaze, and he lets Crowley kiss him, lets his eyes close, lets Crowley’s mouth press gently against his own before he draws away. “You should sleep, darling. Long day ahead tomorrow.” Bobby opens one eye.

“Why do you say that?” Crowley grins at him, and _winks_.

With a groan, Bobby pulls the little bastard closer to him, touching the back of his neck, his hip, and Crowley presses his hands against Bobby’s chest. Bobby wonders how much Crowley likes the sound of his heartbeat, and lets himself drift to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> The works referenced in this fic are, in order, _A Single Man_ , by Christopher Isherwood, Seamus Heaney's poem, _Night Drive_ and _The Prophet_ , which is by Kahil Gibran.
> 
> Hey, hope you enjoyed that! Check [this link](http://dictionarywrites.tumblr.com/post/160853818533/request-commission-information) out if you’re interested in making a request. I love requests, so please feel free to send them in! Commissions are open, and I do have a tip jar too, if you're interested.


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